


Not Even They Know

by high_emerald_clouds



Series: It's Them [1]
Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Bruising, F/M, M/M, Multi, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pre-Canon, Rivalry, héctor just wants them all together, just a lot of smut, mention of public sex, not yet anyway, the other two are not having it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-07-28
Packaged: 2019-05-18 12:17:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14852597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/high_emerald_clouds/pseuds/high_emerald_clouds
Summary: Héctor wants them all together again. Ernesto and Imelda are not big on sharing.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> HEY: Heed the rating and warnings, please. This thing is just... smut.
> 
> Takes place pre-canon and diverges drastically (as in, no murder.)
> 
> There aren’t enough Imelda/Héctor/Ernesto fics in the universe. Does this ship make sense? No, but I want it, so time to contribute with some very self indulgent writing. It’s 95% smut and 2% touchy feely stuff and 3% Who Knows What. It was meant to be one chapter full of smutty smut smut but the end drama manifested on it's own.
> 
> Next chapter will have some of Héctor's POV and a threesome. This chapter contains Imector and Ernector.

The walls of their home are thick and Imelda knows sound doesn’t escape their room very easily. If anyone wants to hear Héctor’s music, they must wait for him in the square, or by the chair where he sits in the shade of a tree at the edge of their property. He’ll play for them at fiestas or during Sunday mass or at the end of busy days. They can listen to him then.

But it’s now that he sings only for Imelda, in the four walls of their bedroom, when night has fallen and the world is dark. 

The windows are shut and the curtains are closed. Items of clothing have been strewn about--a blouse at the open door, trousers on the vanity, a skirt draped on the arm rest of the chair, a white shirt with wrinkled sleeves at the foot of the bed.

The bed frame is sturdy, but the force of the movement on it makes it creek just a bit. Imelda can barely hear it over Héctor’s moans and her harsh breathing, but she knows the sound is there. She wants it to be there. She wants to fuck her husband hard enough to crack the wall, and she wants the memory of the night to stick in his mind but also to be visible to anyone who walks into the room and looks above the headboard.

She wants Ernesto to know of it.

A lantern hangs nearby and gives just enough light for Imelda to see Héctor under her. He’s thrown his head back as she rocks against him, mouth open, gasping for breath. A sheen of sweat coats the arc of his neck. She removes one hand from the headboard to press her fingers under his jaw and trace downwards, feeling his slick skin until she reaches his collar bone. He arches and writhes, musician’s fingers gripping hard to her hips. She hopes he leaves marks there, dark spots where he had dug his fingers in to ground himself because she made him see stars.

She may undress in front of Ernesto soon, so he can see. Just a peek. 

If she decides not to, he will at least see the marks of her teeth on Héctor’s shoulder. 

Licking her lips, she again holds the headboard with both hands and rolls her hips hard, driving him deep into her. Another wave of pleasure shoots through her and she clenches around him. Rolls her hips hard again. Moans so he can hear her over his gasps for air.

With a whine, Héctor moves one hand up her side, pressing his palm along the dip and curve of her waist, and breathes her name like a thirsty man praying for rain. 

“‘Melda,” he gasps, tilting his head up to look at her, eyes wide and lustful. His hand goes to her raised arm pleadingly and she stops immediately. 

Panting, aching, she reaches down to cup his jaw soothingly. “What is it, _amor? Dime._ ”

“You should slow down,” he says. He’s panting as well. His sweat slicked chest rises and falls and shadows play across it. Imelda runs one hand down to his stomach and back up to pinch at his nipples and then to feel the darkening bruise on his shoulder. He twitches at her touch and says with a bright smile, “I know you can’t resist me _mi vida_ but I am so close, I’ll come before you if you don’t---”

“I don’t care,” she says. Her hand goes to his jaw and she runs her thumb his bottom lip. He flicks his tongue out at her thumb and she dips it in so he can nip at her. 

She loves him. She loves his laugh and his smile and his ridiculous ears and the way he helps everyone who needs help. How he can brighten a day with just a few words. She loves when he is with her. She loves him even when he is away. 

She even loves him when he is with Ernesto, their childhood friend, who can hold him down the way Imelda cannot. Ernesto who works alongside with him in the heat of the day, who cared for him as they lived as orphans, who drinks and plays music with him and can lift him clean off the ground. Ernesto, who had smirked at Imelda over Héctor’s shoulder that morning, and Imelda had known what they had done alone in Ernesto’s home.

Ernesto may have had him before the sun rose, but tonight, _tonight_ her husband belongs to her. His voice is hers. His eyes glazed with lust and his chest gleaming with sweat in the light of the single lantern. Only she can hear him now, only she can see him, only she can touch him.

She rolls her hips gently and says, “I want you to come. Don’t wait.” She bounces once and he gasps in surprise, hands once again holding her hips. “You can finish me later, _amor._ But come for me now.”

She bounces again, her thighs slapping against his sweat slick skin, and grabs his hands. Moaning, he watches her as she moves his hands to her breasts. Her hands over his, anchored securely above him, she begins to fuck him hard, and reaches one hand down to hold onto his shoulder. He tosses his head back, hands massaging erratically at her breasts as he cants his hips up against her and tries to match her rhythm. She can hear him, gasping and whining, voice rising as he moans “ _ah, ah, oh, Imelda, mi vida, te amo_ \--”

Imelda dings her fingers into his shoulder, uses her free hand to scratch along his arm and he cries out and arches off the bed, crying out for her ears only, displaying his body for her eyes alone.

He goes lax under her, soft within her, but her heart is still racing. She still aches for him, throbbing desperately between her legs. But she likes to see him there under her, a slow smile growing on his face and bliss bright in his eyes. She leans down to kiss him, deep and slow, rubbing her hands roughly over his nipples as he twitches involuntarily at her touch and sighs into the kiss.

Pulling back, she pets his chest softly, feels the tiny divets in his shoulder where she had gripped, and carefully lays beside him.

“Here,” she says. She takes one of his hands and guides it between her legs, where he slips his fingers into her without a word, and presses where he knows it brings her pleasure. 

He rolls over to kiss her lips and her jaw and down her sweat slick neck. He mouths at her breasts, bites gently down on her nipples, while his hand moves within the slickness between her thighs.

Imelda runs her fingers down his bare back, basking in the building pleasure. She glances up and in the dim light sees that there is not a single crack in the wall behind them. Of course, not even she is strong enough to break the wall. Héctor whispers declarations of love against her skin and she clenches around his fingers, gasping his name.

She did not leave a mark on their home, but she left marks on her husband. As he sleeps next to her, she touches each bite mark, each bruise where her fingers dug. Tomorrow, Héctor will travel with Ernesto to a plaza two towns away, where they will play on two seperate days. Ernesto, who had grown apart from Imelda so much lately but who refused to release his hold on her husband, would see her markings on him. 

She thinks of Ernesto fuming at the sight and pinning Héctor to some hotel bed as he had done so many times in the past when they all three made love together. She closes her eyes and smiles. Like the games they had always played, she would win.

She dares Ernesto to outdo her.

* * *

Ernesto spots the bruises on Héctor’s shoulders as they dress for the show, and narrows his eyes.

It has been days since he and Héctor have fucked. Almost a week since he bent his friend over his bed after wrestling, laughing and cursing at each other until he was deep in Héctor and fucking him slowly as revenge to an elbow to the chin. As Héctor moaned and moved his hips back, begging to pick up the pace, Ernesto had gripped his hair and thought of Imelda stewing in the home she shared with her husband after Héctor returned to her. Ernesto would only have to smirk at her and she would know. Héctor had whimpered and Ernesto’s thought had gone back to his lover, to the man he had known for years, and snapped his hips forward.

Ernesto is no fool. Neither are Imelda or Héctor. His friends, his lovers, people he had known since childhood. He knows their strengths and their weaknesses, and he knows they can be as intelligent as he. Even though he and Imelda have not shared a bed for months, he still knows her better than she may like to admit. 

He knows she left the marks for him. Oh, small pains brought Héctor pleasure, but the dark bruises had clearly been left for Ernesto’s eyes. 

She had taken the bait. Ernesto did enjoy playing games with her.

This time he would win.

What he is winning, he is not sure, and he knows she doesn’t know, either. Some angry dark emotion deep in his being knows he can never have Héctor completely to himself, not anymore, not like he used to. He is not playing to keep him. 

Whatever he is playing for, he will win.

“ _Vamos!_ ” Héctor says, pulling Ernesto from his thoughts. His lithe body is dressed in his well cared for _charro_ suit, and he tops it off with the new sombrero Imelda had bought for him. 

He’s standing at the door, checking his reflection one last time in the nearby mirror, when Ernesto grabs his arm and pushes him against the wall.

“ _Ay, cabron!_ Ernesto, what--”

Ernesto kisses him, licking into his warm mouth, pressing against him, claiming his mouth as a poor man claims a vein of gold. Héctor grips Ernesto’s arms and kisses back, allowing himself to be held against the wall. His hat falls to the floor.

One hand holding Héctor’s jaw, Ernesto lowers his free hand until he reaches between Héctor’s long legs and grabs the bulge he has obsessed over for so long.

Héctor gasps into the kiss and shifts. Ernesto palms him, rubbing insistently, and Héctor begins to whimper. Ernesto smirks against his lips. He loves the sounds he can produce in his friend with such ease.

He presses harder once and leans back, licks his lips as Héctor follows to continue the kiss. 

“No,” Ernesto says, and pushes against Héctor’s chest to keep him against the wall. Panting, Héctor watches him eagerly.

Squeezing between Héctor’s legs, Ernesto says, “Play well today, _amigo,_ and maybe we’ll continue this when we return. Maybe I’ll fuck you until you forget your name, yes? Would you like that?”

Héctor blinks his ridiculous big eyes at him and shakes his head. “But, Ernesto, we don’t have to leave now--”

“We’ll be late,” is all Ernesto says before he releases Héctor and leaves through the door.

He waits just outside the shabby hotel, dusting off his _charro_ trousers, until Héctor finally shows up. His friend is walking stiffly and carefully, pouting, and glares at Ernesto.

“You’re going to pay for this,” he tells Ernesto, who replies with “Oh, really? I cannot wait for you to show me, Héctor.”

Héctor glares at him the entire way to the show.

He plays well--exceptionally well. Enthusiastic, as always, throwing kisses at the cheering crowd as Ernesto waves at them and winks.

Women in the crowd watch Héctor with doe eyes and well hidden desire. But they cannot have him. He played for them and danced for them on stage and sang for them. But that is all they will ever have of him.

In Santa Cecilia, Imelda waits for him. She had him two days ago.

But tonight, he is Ernesto’s.

As promised, Ernesto fucks his friend in their dark little hotel room once they return. He lets Héctor undress and pushes him forward onto the bed. With his face down and ass up, Héctor wriggles and gasps as Ernesto prepares him. He sucks on Ernesto’s fingers. Ernesto presses on his tongue and around his wet mouth and promises him in a low voice he will have something much more desirable to suck later. Héctor moans and sucks harder, moves his hips back to bury Ernesto’s thumb deeper. Héctor had of course packed his favorite oil for the night, but Ernesto has a special appreciation for Héctor’s mouth. 

Soon, his cock is deep in his friend, and he is moving hard, snapping his hips forward, panting as he watches. Beneath him, Héctor is moaning into the pillow, shifting against the bed with every forceful push behind him. His hands clench at the pale sheets below.

Ernesto leans forward and lands one hand on Héctor’s shoulder. The bruise is dark beneath his fingers. He imagines Imelda biting down as Héctor fucks into her and he grips him there hard.

Héctor gasps and pushes back to meet Ernesto’s thrusts. With a grunt, Ernesto slaps his free hand against Héctor’s reddening cheeks and grabs his ruffled hair with the other, pulls until Héctor raises his head and rises up onto his hands. Hand still in Héctor’s hair, Ernesto rubs his hand down his friend’s thin hips and reaches down to grab Héctor’s leaking cock and squeeze.

“ _Ah!_ ” Héctor rocks forward. “Ay, Ernesto, por favor, _ah_ \--”

“Shh, Héctor,” Ernesto says, running his fingers along the throbbing vein, “What would people say, if they heard you and found you like this, mm?”

He wraps his fingers around Héctor’s cock and pumps him slowly, hand slick with precome, as he continues to fuck Héctor steady and deep.

“What would your fans say if they found you ass in the air, begging for my cock?”

This brings him a long, drawn out moan. He releases Héctor’s hair and Héctor’s head falls forward. His arms tremble.

“Can you imagine, the crowd watching,” Ernesto says, breathless, “As you bend over for me? As enticing as an audience would be, we cannot let anyone know, amor. You know what they would do to us.”

He squeezes his fingers at the base of Héctor’s cock and pulls slowly out, until only his head is teasing at Héctor’s entrance. Shuddering, Héctor’s hips twitch back.

“Ernesto--”

With his free hand, he covers Héctor’s mouth and moves back in, driving forward twice before hitting that spot he knows can make Héctor howl.

He hears the muffled cry. He continues to pound, sees Héctor’s arms give out beneath him and follows his friend down as his chest collapses against the bed. He’s still on his knees. Ernesto pumps his cock as he pounds, harder and faster, and listens to Héctor grunting into his hand.

Panting, voice rough, hand still covering Héctor’s gasping mouth, he growls into his friend’s ear, “If everyone saw, they would want what they cannot have. I’d have to keep you locked away, Héctor, where only I can take you. Mine, your ass, your mouth would be for my pleasure alone--”

With a cry, Héctor releases into Ernesto’s hand, clenching hard around Ernesto’s cock and it is not long before Ernesto is coming, bending over Héctor’s sweat slicked back as he releases into his friend, moaning.

He lays there atop of Héctor, petting his hair, kissing his shoulder blades as Héctor gasps and mumbles sleepily against his pillow. He loves his friend, loves his ridiculous grin and long fingers and neverending belief in Ernesto. He loves how he is always so eager to share his bed. 

He touches the bruises on Héctor’s shoulder. He has not left marks on his friend in a while. He will let Imelda have that battle for now. He thinks next time he will bite just above the small swell of Héctor’s ass, where Imelda will have to look hard for.

Imelda, who makes stars gleam in Héctor’s eyes, who can call him her husband. Who can give him a new family. Who gave Héctor his first journal, who can hold his hand in daylight, who he write songs for as if he wrote songs for the meaning of life itself. Imelda, who can give and take what Ernesto can not, not in this lifetime.

He can’t remember the last time the three of them shared a bed, but he will make certain to leave a mark for her to see that she is not the only one driving Héctor mad.

* * *

“We should invite Ernesto for dinner.”

" _What?_ "

Imelda looks down at Héctor. Looking up at her from between her spread legs, her husband’s face gleams with her juices. His fingers are still in her, pumping in and out, and he kisses her stomach. It is weeks after she had left bruises on his shoulders, and they have faded. Now her marks are on his chest, though she cannot see them now.

“I said,” Héctor says, pressing his thumb against her clit and pulling a moan, “We should invite Ernesto for dinner. It’s been a while, and--”

“Another day, perhaps,” Imelda pants. She buries her hand in his hair and pushes his face down, until his tongue is in her again, and she is moaning and not thinking of Ernesto.

* * *

“How long has it been since you’ve spoken with Imelda?”

Ernesto moves his head back and Héctor’s cock slips from his mouth. Wiping at his lips, Ernesto stares incredulously up at Héctor, who looks back with dark red cheeks and hopeful eyes. It has been days since their time playing on stage, and Ernesto is annoyed that Héctor is wasting time talking.

“You should come by this Friday, we are going to make--”

“The only coming I am doing, my friend, is in you,” Ernesto says, and surges up to press Héctor back into bed and swallows his indignant comeback with a deep, wet kiss.

* * *

“I think Ernesto misses you,” Héctor says. 

Again, days later, and he and Imelda are in their kitchen. He is chopping cloves of garlic as she plucks feathers from two quails. She places a handful of feathers into a basket and wonders if Héctor would enjoy feathers being traced along his body.

“He does not.”

“I think he does,” Héctor says. He scoops the chopped garlic into a small wooden bowl and sniffs his fingers. With grimace, he wipes his hands on the apron Imelda had made for him. “ _Hijole,_ my fingers are going to smell like garlic all day.”

“Do not touch me with your garlic fingers,” Imelda says, but he ends up tickling her into submission later in bed, and Ernesto’s name does not come up again.

* * *

“I think Imelda misses you.”

Ernesto plucks a string of his guitar. “ _No lo creo._ ”

“Sé que tengo razón,” Héctor says. He plays a few notes on his guitar, and Ernesto plays along. A week since they fucked, and they are sitting together behind Ernesto’s home, and night is falling. They are sitting back to back in the cool grass.

After nightfall, Héctor will return to Imelda, but not before Ernesto has a moment long enough to make good use of Héctor’s mouth. So busy ravishing attention on Ernesto’s cock, Héctor will be too occupied to mention Imelda again.

* * *

Imelda wishes she could fuck him hard enough to make his legs completely useless for a day, just long enough to keep him home, so he does not travel with Ernesto. 

Ernesto wishes he could fuck him senseless, to make travel impossible, to keep him one day more in their hotel, alone with each other.

They each hope to keep Héctor for themselves, choosing to ignore the days when they slept and fucked and sang and loved together, and Héctor kept them whole. They ignore the days they made love while Héctor slept next to them, exhausted, safe, and smiling.

* * *

It takes a bull to bring them together again.

Imelda hears the shouts from the open kitchen window, and her heart sinks. Throwing the ball of tortilla dough against the table, she rushes out the kitchen door and to the road in front of her home. Her apron and hands and for some reason her hair are all dusty with flour, but she does not care. 

Down the road, she sees Ernesto lean out the open doorway to his own home, looking past Imelda’s home where the shouting is coming from. Neighbors are also stepping out to see what the commotion is, and part in a hurry when a group of men rush down the road.

They are rushing for Imelda’s home, and they are carrying a limp body between them.

Imelda sees the dark red of blood before she realizes the body is her husband. Her breath stops.

Héctor’s boots drag along the cobble road, his head hangs forward, and he is unnaturally silent.

Blood drips like water from his hair.

“Where is doctor Alvarez?” One of the men cries. He has Héctor’s limp arm slung over his shoulder, and a smear of dried blood along his cheek. His eyes are wide. “Someone get him, _rápido!_ ”

The men are carrying Imelda’s husband towards her. Her heart is in her throat. The world seems to sway around her. Héctor is not moving.

“What happened?” She demands, forcing herself to move forward. “Guzman, what happened? What’s wrong? _Dime ahora!_ ”

She is near them now, and she can see her husband clearly, can see a wide gash beneath his normally soft hair, can see fresh blood trailing down his gaunt face. 

Guzman, the younger man carrying Héctor, opens his mouth to answer as they near, but another voice interrupts.

“Get him inside!” Says the voice, and Imelda realizes Doctor Alvarez is running down the road, a dark leather bad in hand. He waves angrily at the men carrying Héctor. “ _Ándale!_ Inside!”

“Lo siento,” Guzman says, and they begin to carry Héctory past Imelda.

“Someone tell me what happened to my husband!” She demands, and follows in their wake, realizing vaguely that the dark spots on the cobblestone are puddles of blood from Héctor’s wound.

She runs after the men, who carry Héctor into her own home, realizes suddenly that someone is running at her side.

Ernesto does not look at her, but they rush forward together.

“Diego, come with me, I’m going to need your help. And Guzman, keep them out!” Is Doctor Alvarez’s last words to Guzman before he follows Digeo and Héctor inside, and Guzman looks to Imelda and Ernesto with panicked eyes.

“Doctor Alvarez said--”

“This is _my home,_ ” Imelda says, and at the same time Ernesto snarls, “You can’t possibly think you can keep _me_ out--”

“Ramirez’s bull knocked him down,” Guzman says, and the other two go silent. Shaking his head, wiping the back of his hand against his forehead, Guzman continues, “He tried to get out of the way, but it caught him in the head with it’s horn. It got loose and it just, knocked him down, and…” He breathed out and looked them both sternly in the eyes. “If either of you go in, you’ll just get in the way. I am sorry, Señora Rivera.”

“ _Chingados,_ move!” Ernesto growls, and begins to push past a frightened Guzman.

Imelda grips his arm and holds tight.

“Let go--” he begins, but when he looks at her pale face, sees the tears in her normally stern gaze, he falters.

“There is nothing we can do,” she says. Her jaw trembles and she breathes deep. “Not unless Doctor Alvarez asks for help. Until then. We wait.”

Her voice shakes. Her hand trembles on Ernesto’s arm. Something stirs in Ernesto’s chest, and the anger leaves him in a rush.

He does not apologize to Guzman, who is just grateful he didn’t get beat aside. Instead, Ernesto collapses into the empty bench just outside the Rivera home and stares listly ahead. 

Imelda sits next to him. Her hands rest on her knees for a moment, until she reaches over to slowly take one of Ernesto’s in her own.

Without a word, Ernesto holds her hand tightly, and they wait as the sun sets behind the mountains.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Less smut. More feels. But still smut. And a threesome at the end. 
> 
> Also.... much longer.
> 
> Added warning: period typical homophobia.

“He invited me to dinner at your house.”

From where she stands near the bench, Imelda glances at Ernesto and sniffs. “And?”

Ernesto is leaning back against the wall of her home. She knows he is trying to appear nonchalant, as if the memory of Héctor with blood on his face didn’t bother him. But he is tapping one finger repeatedly against his arm. He keeps glancing at the door where Guzman is still standing. He’s as worried as she is.

“Would you have let me into your home without throwing a fit?” Ernesto asks.

Imelda purses her lips. She knows he is trying to get under her skin. She crosses her arms and shrugs, looking away from him as if he doesn’t deserve her attention. “ _No sé._ Maybe I would have had my brothers throw you into the mud where you belong.”

She expects him to glower and insult her back, maybe storm off and leave her to worry alone. Instead, he rolls his eyes and barks a laugh that surprises her.

“I had almost forgotten how good your insults are,” Ernesto says.

“I wasn’t even trying,” Imelda says with a snort. She smirks at him. “Say stupid things to me again and I will _really_ insult you.”

With a chuckle, Ernesto raises his palms. “Ah, no, _gracias._ I value my life too much, Señora Rivera. I know when to keep my mouth shut.”

“Smart man.”

Guzman is watching them with a worried frown, as if unsure what to make of their ongoing conversation. For the past hour, Ernesto and Imelda have been speaking at intervals between the worrying and pacing back and forth. Before today, it has been months since they’ve spoken to each other. Messages were usually passed through Héctor, who Imelda thinks had been growing annoyed with them. But these conversations shared while they wait for news has been helpful. It’s taking their mind off of whatever is happening inside Imelda’s home.

She is not sure why or when they stopped interacting as they once had. She thinks it might have been some time after her marriage to Héctor. Before they became husband and wife, she and Héctor and Ernesto had been involved in a way that would not possibly be accepted by anyone outside their circle. She knew it was not traditional. She knew what people would say about her if they knew. But they had all three grown up together. Their relationship and evolved from just friendship, and became the thing it was now.

She thinks Ernesto may have felt insulted when Héctor proposed to her. They have stopped sleeping together, They ignore each other when they pass in the street. He hasn’t held her in his arms for so long, and she hasn’t heard his deep voice against her ear. But she would rather die than have him know she misses him.

They both have Héctor anyway, but she thinks he is growing tired being stretched between them. 

Imelda looks at Guzman, who seems surprised she has caught him watching and looks away with a gulp. She wants to push past him and walk into her home and help somehow. Instead of standing outside and thinking about Ernesto while her husband bleeds behind those wall. It’s infuriating. But it’s all she can do, for now.  
\--------------------------

They have grown quiet. Imelda begins to pace again. Ernesto sits on the bench and watches her. Her pacing is making him anxious, and he wishes he could pull her onto his lap to hold her and let her rant about the doctor taking so long, because he knows it’s what she’s thinking. But grabbing another man’s wife would get him into trouble he does not want to deal with, even if they had all held each other countless times behind closed doors.

He can never show her affection when others are watching, just as he cannot show the sort of affection he craves to Héctor. He and his _amigo_ can be the idiots they always have been of course, and he can be polite with Imelda, very close friends in public, but he cannot hold them, or press kisses to their cheeks, or sit too close during the fiestas. He cannot show anyone that they are _his._ That he is theirs. It is not allowed. 

He wonders if there is anywhere where such a relationship would be viewed favorably. He doesn’t think there is, if there ever will be. He knows of activists in the larger cities, but he also knows what they’ve suffered.

Imelda at least can now walk with Héctor’s hand in her own and sit near him and the world can know that they are each other’s. They can start a family. Without Ernesto.

For a long time, it was all he could think about when he saw Imelda. How she and Héctor could form a life without him and would not be shunned for it. He knows he’s caused a rift between all of them because of his pain, but it hurts too much to know she is what Héctor thinks of when he thinks _home._

He can at least still delight in Héctor’s presence in stolen moments away from disapproving eyes, but it still feels as if Imelda should be there somehow. Ernesto has ignored that desire for months, and would rather show Imelda that Héctor still comes to him, but seeing Héctor bleeding and limp and quiet has brought the thoughts up again. 

If Héctor was gone, what would either of them have?

Finally, the door opens, and Ernesto stands rather than continue thinking such dark thoughts. 

Doctor Alvarez pats Guzman on the shoulder before addressing Ernesto and Imelda. 

“You can go home, Guzman. _Gracias._ ”

“Héctor?” Guzman asks hesitantly, as Ernesto and Imelda walk up.

“He’s fine,” Doctor Alvarez says. “Alive. You did well to bring him so quickly.”

Guzman opens his mouth to say something but Imelda pushes past him with a huff and Ernesto follows.

“Señora Rivera,” Doctor Alvarez calls, “ _Espere un momento, por favor!_ ”

But she ignores him, and Ernesto follows her to the bedroom where a trail of dried blood leads. She pushes the door open and inside is Héctor, sitting up in bed, awake, _alive_ , and shirtless.

The _pendejo_ has bandages wrapped around his forehead and his bare chest, where splotches of darkened skin peek out from the edges of the wrapping. He’s touching the bruised skin gingerly and wincing before he looks up to see Imelda surging forward.

“Imelda,” he says, cheer coloring his tired voice, and raises one arm as she nears him.

“Héctor,” she gasps, and sits on the edge of their bed to pull him into a hug.” _Amor-_ ”

She’s cut off when Héctor gasps and stiffens in her arms with a grimace. Immediately Imelda releases him and leans away. 

Ernesto goes to stand by the bed, arms crossed, as Doctor Alvarez stands in the doorway.

“Bruised ribs,” the doctor says when Imelda turns to him. “I was worried they were broken, but I don’t think they are. He’d have more trouble breathing if they were. Near call, though.”

“And his head?” Ernesto says, while Imelda places a hand on Héctor’s shoulder and stands near the headboard. “Why was he bleeding so much? Did he lose what little brain he had left?”

He ignores Héctor’s insulted scoff.

“A glorified scratch,” the doctor says. “Head wounds bleed excessively, and sometimes seem worse than they are. I know Ramirez’s bull has the worst temperament in the city. Your husband is lucky he escaped with only bruises and scratches, Señora Rivera.”

For a moment, Ernesto thinks the doctor was speaking to him, as if the husband in question was his, and his heart jumps until it is clear he is addressing Imelda.

“ _Very_ lucky,” Imelda confirms, and looks a sheepish Héctor in the eyes.

“He’ll have to stay in bed for the next week,” Doctor Alvarez says. “I’ll be by next Monday to check his ribs. I don’t want to keep those bandages on longer than necessary. But you’ll have to change the his head wrapping regularly.”

“ _Espera,_ ” Héctor says suddenly, and everyone looks at him suspiciously. “A week? I can’t stay in bed a week!”

“ _Mi marido,_ you will stay in bed as long as the doctor says,” Imelda says, voice tight, and looks like she wants to smack him upside the head.

“ _Pero--!_ ”

“ _And,_ ” the doctor continues, raising an eyebrow at the couple. “No strenuous activities for two months. That means no dancing on stages, no climbing the hills, no long travels, and no riding bulls.”

“You were _riding_ the bull?” Ernesto erupts, and Héctor looks panicked under the angry gazes of both his wife and his best friend.

“Doctor,” Héctor says faintly, “You saved my life, and now you’re trying to get me killed! I wasn’t _riding_ the bull! It got out of Señor Ramirez’s _corral_ and we were trying to get it back. I didn’t get out of the way quick enough!”

“ _Estupido,_ ” Ernesto says, and meets Héctor’s tired glare with an angrier one. 

“I’ve done what I can for today,” Doctor Alvarez says. “I would return tomorrow, but I think he will do well enough in your capable hands, Señora. But if you have any concerns--”

“I send for you,” Imelda says curtly. She stands and begins to walk with the doctor down the hall. Ernesto can hear their voices. “ _Gracias por todo, Doctor._ ”

“It’s my job. Again, Señora Rivera, if you need anything….”

Their voices fade. Alone in the room, Héctor and Ernesto look at each other. Héctor smiles worriedly. Ernesto snorts. 

“ _Pinche idiota,_ ” Ernesto says, _Qué pensabas, eh?_ The beast could have crushed your head.”

“And you’d have missed me?” Héctor asks hopefully, as Ernesto rolls his eyes. “Ay, have sympathy! I couldn’t just not help!”

“Yes you could,” Ernesto says. “What am I going to have to do to keep you from followint these hairbrained ideas? Tie you down?”

Héctor shrugs, smiling slowly. “Well, if you must--”

Imelda walks in to see Ernesto reaching over to poke his finger at Héctor’s collarbone, glaring, and Héctor yelps.

“ _Cabron!_ Be gentle with me, I’m injured!”

“He should have poked you harder,” Imelda says, voice still taught with anger. She sits again by Héctor’s side and begins to run a finger gently along the edge of the bandages around his chest. “”You put us through a rough night, Héctor.”

“ _Lo siento,_ Imelda,” Héctor says, voice softening. Ernesto is struck by how exhausted they both look. It’s a wonder Héctor is awake at all. He watches as his friend takes Imelda’s smaller hand in his own. Imelda carefully leans in to press a kiss to his nose. 

Without a word, Ernesto leaves the room. There’s still blood on the floor. He’s not a woman, cleaning is not his duty, but he goes to the kitchen, dips a cloth in water, and starts scrubbing at the blood, while Imelda tends to her husband.

\---------------------

 

Four days after Héctor was dragged bleeding into his home, and Imelda walks in to find him with one foot on the floor, staring at her like a rabbit in sight of a coyote.

“Ah, _mi amor--_ ”

“Back in bed,” she snaps, with a basket of dirty clothes in her arms. She was going to collect the night shirt she’d helped him out of that morning. He’s sitting bare chested in their bed. She can see darkened skin still around the edges of the bandages.

“I was going to get water,” Héctor says.

“ _I_ will get you water,” Imelda answers. With a sigh, Héctor eases himself back into bed.

When Imelda brings him his water, she places the glass to his lips and watches him drink carefully. 

“Sit with me?” He asks when she lowers the glass. “I’m lonely, Imelda.”

With a frown, she reaches up to wipe his lips, and he takes the chance to kiss her finger tips. He’s done wonderful things with his mouth before, singing beautiful songs and doing sinful things between her thighs and to her breasts and every inch of her skin, but for a moment she’s only reminded of the way the blood had dripped down his face to the corners of his lips.

She cups his cheek in her hand and nudges him aside. He makes room for her, lets her run her hand down his face, along his shoulders, as if to remind herself he isn’t a dream. 

“For a moment,” she says. She wishes she could wrap her arms around him, but the slightest movements still bring him pain.

“Every moment with you is a blessing,” he says, and smiles at her snort.

\----------

Before long, Imelda does, indeed, allow Ernesto into their home.

“Dinner will be ready before dark, if you’d like to stay,” she says, as if she doesn’t care what he decides to do. 

He’s following her into their bedroom, where Héctor is reading in bed. The night he’d been injured, Imelda had quietly stepped into the hall to help Ernesto clean while Héctor slept. It had been the last time Ernesto had stepped foot in there. Also the first time he’d been there in months.

But Imelda had soon come to Ernesto’s home to tell him, “He’s lonely. I can’t stay in the room all day, and my brothers are busy. You could entertain him, you layabout, since you have nothing better to do.”

Ernesto would have fired back with an insult of his own if he hadn’t realized how difficult it must have been for her to go to him. Besides, it was he who had begun to drift away first. He supposed.

Now he sits by Héctor’s bed and deals out cards. Imelda watches them from the doorway before leaving for errands, and Ernesto fights the automatic urge to climb into bed with Héctor.

Héctor does not seem tired anymore, but everytime he looks at Ernesto or his wife, his eyes light up. 

Ernesto deals out the last cards, and barely notices when Héctor coughs into his hand.

\---------------

Ernesto visits Héctor every day, from morning till noon. Sometimes he arrives early enough for breakfast, and sometimes Imelda will serve him a plate.

By the next week, Héctor is allowed to leave the bedroom. Ernesto sits with him outside in the shade, playing cards, arguing about song lyrics, sharing news of Santa Cecilia. Héctor still has bandages wrapped tight around his chest, but the wrapping on his forehead are now gone. There is a long scar along his scalp, hidden by his hair. Ernesto watches it when Héctor is preoccupied with his cards and thinks if the bull’s horn had hit inches lower and taken an eye, or hit harder and deeper and cracked bone. He does not pray often anymore, but he thanks the heavens that it is only a gash.

By the time he leaves, Imelda has returned home, and takes his seat to enjoy the shade with her husband. She has lunch for them both, and Ernesto returns to his own home to eat what he can.

When he sees Imelda sit with Héctor, Ernesto tries to find the old anger he’d felt towards her, but he can’t bring himself to. He can’t find the bitter thoughts or the urge to make her jealous of him the same way he is jealous of her. All he sees is the way she makes Héctor smile and brighten. He can no longer find it in him to be so hateful when she brings him such joy.

Because she had brought him the same joy once, and he misses it.

\----------------

One day, Imelda returns home after shopping in the market, and finds Héctor and Ernesto already sitting in the kitchen. The window is open, warm summer air blowing in. Their shirts are off, and both look up as she sets her basket of meats and vegetables down the table.

“Such indecency in my own home,” she says, but smiles to let them know she isn’t completely aghast. Two weeks ago she may have thrown Ernesto out the moment she laid eyes on him, but now she is glad he is there keeping her husband company. 

He makes Héctor smile and laugh, and sometimes Imelda wishes she could share their humor once again like she had before they grew apart. She will make due for now.

“It’s so hot Imelda,” Héctor groans. He wipes a hand against his forehead. Imelda notices sweat on both of the men’s chests and necks, and she fights the urge to watch a bead of sweat travel down Ernesto’s broad shoulders. 

“Taking off our shirts makes the heat a little more bearable,” Ernesto says. He winks at her. “You should try it.”

Imelda narrows her eyes at him at the same time that Héctor lets out a surprised laugh. But immediately after laughing, he cuts off with a hiss and places a hand over his ribs.

“ _Pendejo,_ don’t make me laugh,” he groans. 

“Is it getting any better?” Imelda asks. She had rushed to him the moment he voiced his pain, and was holding his shoulders. 

“Eh, it only really hurts when I laugh,” he answers. Ernesto is watching him with a worried frown. “Or take a deep breath. But not as bad as before, _gracias a Dios._ ” Suddenly he coughs into his hand and winces, cursing under his breath. “And when I cough.”

He’s taking short breaths, since the pain and the tight bandages don’t allow for much else. Imelda runs a hand soothingly down his back before going back to the basket.

“I’m going to make lunch,” she says.

“Imelda,” Héctor says, “ _Lo siento amor, pero no tengo hambre.”_

Ernesto snorts, throwing his shirt on and buttoning it up. “You’re always hungry.”

“You’re going to eat,” Imelda orders. “You need to keep your strength up. Ernesto,” she adds, as Ernesto begins to gather his things. She pauses, pursing her lips, before saying, “You may stay for lunch. If you’d like.”

Ernesto pauses. Héctor watches them both, hope in his eyes, hand still on his chest.

“Well,” Ernesto says, shrugging and slowly sitting back down. “If you insist.”

“I’m not twisting your arm,” Imelda says curtly.

“Your wife has threatened me with violence if I leave, Rivera,” Ernesto says to Héctor, who is trying not to laugh.

“I’ve done no such thing _estupido,_ ” Imelda says, removing the ingredients she needs. Ernesto continues to argue lightly with her while Héctor shakes with repressed laughter and short, dry coughs.

\-------------------

Miraculously, Ernesto helps her clean up.

He’s helped Héctor back to bed, where the younger man had eased himself onto the mattress, seeming more tired than before. When he returned to the kitchen, Imelda stared in shock when he began putting away the plates she had already cleaned.

He doesn’t know exactly why he stays. He misses her, maybe. He enjoyed their lunch, and they had all laughed and talked and enjoyed each others presence, like they had before the marriage. He just wants to be with her, he supposes.

He tries not to think of all the meals she and Héctor have had without him there, of all the times Héctor has made love to her in their home.

She looks at him suspiciously the whole time he helps but says nothing. By the end, as he gathers his things to leave, she graces him with a small smile.

“ _Gracias,_ Ernesto,” she says. 

Ernesto nods. “It was nothing.”

“Can’t you just say you’re welcome?” Imelda snaps, the smile gone, and this time Ernesto smiles.

“ _De nada,_ Imelda.”

Imelda sniffs and nods. They wait in silence for a while, almost awkward, until Ernesto nods again and leaves Imelda watching him from the doorway.

\------------------

That night, Imelda knocks on his door.

Ernesto opens it and hurriedly moves back when she steps forward, ignoring him as she moves down the hall to his sitting room.

“You left your shirt in my kitchen,” she says, and pulls out from under her arm the undershirt he’d forgotten to pull on. She had wrapped it in dark cloth, so no one would see what she was carrying. She shakes it and begins to fold it as Ernesto shuts the door. “I washed it, it stank. Héctor’s cough is worse, so I’ve asked Doctor Alvarez to check on him tomorrow. Why is this room such a mess? What if you have visitors?”

“I’ll clean when I have visitors, because what is the point otherwise?” Ernesto asks, annoyed, as Imelda places his folded shirt on his armchair and begins to straighten the decorative pillows his Mamá had left him.

Imelda makes an annoyed noise and bends over to pick a blanket from the floor. Ernesto is treated to her bum in the air, and the effect is immediate. He gulps and averts his eyes because she will rip off his head if she catches him staring without her permission, and tries not to think of the times he had taken her from behind, pressing her against the wall of his bedroom, while she moaned his name and Héctor watched. He had loved grabbing her breasts and squeezing until she laughed and slapped his hands away. Héctor, at least, had always let him squeeze his ass to his heart’s content.

Imelda stands and folds the blanket, and Ernesto has to struggle not to hear the memory of her gasps and demands of _Harder, Ernesto, por Dios,_ when she throws the blanket at him.

“I’m not your maid,” she says. She steps up to him. He holds the blanket between them like a shield. “Clean your house. I won’t have my husband visiting a pig sty.”

“Fine,” Ernesto says, glowering at her smirk. “When will the doctor be there?”

“First thing in the morning,” Imelda says. “I’ll let you know how he does, when you get there.”

She leaves, and Ernesto sits on his armchair.

Fucking Héctor was always a pleasure. After distancing himself from Imelda, Ernesto had tried to forget her.

But, he thinks, taking his folded shirt into his hands, he hadn’t been able to convince himself for long. He misses her. Her voice, her singing, her laughter. When he had tried to fuck Héctor better than she did, he had sometimes dreamed of having her next to them, too. 

He sits, and remembers a time when they’d all been together.

\------------------

“This is why I did not want to leave the bandages on for so long,” Doctor Alvarez says the next day. He’s removing the bandages while Héctor holds his arms in the air. Héctor looks tired. He coughs.

“It might have developed into pneumonia if we hadn’t caught it this soon,” the doctor continues. “I’ll leave the bandages off. Deep breaths, if you can, Héctor. But two more days in bed while you recover. If he develops a fever, Señora Rivera, send for me.”

“I will,” Imelda says. She’s sitting at the foot of the bed, watching the doctor remove the bandages that had not allowed Héctor to breath correctly. “Are his ribs healing well, at least?”

“Oh yes,” Doctor Alvarez says. “The bruising is not quite as prominent. He should have a full recovery within the month.”

“Finally,” Héctor groans, and lets his arms down once the bandages are completely off.

The skin over his ribs is only slightly discolored. He pokes himself carefully, smiling at Imelda when it’s obvious the pain is much less than before.

“Two days of bed rest,” Imelda repeats as the doctor stands. 

“ _Si._ Hot broths and teas, no taxing activities.”

After Doctor Alvarez leaves, Héctor pouts at Imelda. “I was hoping to be done with that already.

“Nobody asked you to get hurt,” Imelda says, but her touch is gentle when she grips his chin and leans in to kiss his cheek.

He tries to kiss her lips but she puts her fingers on his chin and pushed him back, shaking her head. “No. I don’t need you coughing into my mouth.”

“Cruel, _mi esposa,_ ” he says, and he genuinely looks defeated until he lowers his head to nip at her fingertip. She lets him kiss her fingers, his eyes watching her smirk grow as he licks at her palm. She’s relaxing back, allows him to kiss her wrist, and suddenly he’s coughing, cursing between coughs as he turns to the side and hacks into his hand.

Imelda runs her hand comfortingly up and down his arm until he’s done. His face is deep red, and he sinks into the pillows behind him with a sigh.

“I’m going to make some _caldo_ ,” Imelda says. “Just rest, Héctor. The faster you recover, the soon I let you kiss me again.”

“I’m going to pray to heal by tonight,” he says, grinning at Imelda’s laughter.

\--------------------

It was bound to happen sooner or later, Imelda thinks.

They’ve been apart for so long. Fighting over something ridiculous. Playing a game over Héctor who had never asked for it, stretching him between them. Héctor never said anything, but Imelda had seen how going between two angry lovers had drained him. It was only now that she felt guilty, instead of annoyed. She knew Ernesto felt the same.

She also knows that Ernesto has missed her as much as she missed him.

His hands are on her waist, his mouth on her neck, and she falls back onto his bed with her arms stretched over her head. She arches her back and lets him kiss down her neck, until he is mouthing at one breast and squeezing the other.

It had happened so quickly. That morning, Ernesto had not shown up at her home. She’d made enough caldo for lunch and dinner for all three of them, expecting Ernesto to spend time with Héctor as he had been doing for weeks. But he never showed up. She’d sat alone in the kitchen, arms crossed, tapping her foot. 

When she’d taken Héctor his soup, she had seen how disappointed he was that his friend was not there to be an idiot and make him laugh. Even her brothers were not near to spend time with him, as they had left to help Señor Guerrero move to a city three days away. They would be gone for the week.

Annoyed, Imelda had left to Ernesto’s home, a covered bowl of soup stored in her basket. She’d barged into his home. They’d argued. Imelda had grabbed him by the shirt, yelled in his face, and pulled him down into a kiss. 

He had held her against the wall, kissing her deep and thoroughly, and reached a hand under her skirt.

“Not here,” Imelda had snapped, and pulled him into his bedroom.

The day before, when she’d taken his shirt, she had almost kissed him. She had wanted him to kiss her.

Now he’s finally giving her what she wants, leaving her breast cold as he reached up to kiss her again. He pinches her nipple unforgivingly and she arches further, gasping into the kiss, and digs her nails into the skin of his back.

“Héctor?” Ernesto asks against her lips, palming her breast. He’s always been obsessed with her chest. 

“He has a cold,” Imelda says, breathless. Her hand trembles against him. “It was almost pneumonia. Oh, Ernesto, we almost lost--”

“ _Don’t,_ ” Ernesto begs, and kisses her tears away.

His hand is under her skirt, between her legs now. He buries his face in her neck and sucks, pressing his fingers into her. She squirms, bites her lip and humps against his hand. She will not let him hear another moan until his cock is in her, fucking away the worry of losing her husband. 

His fingers leave her, and he traces a wet trail over her breasts before kneeling and lifting her skirt over her waist. She clutches at the sheets, bites her lips so hard she’s afraid she will taste blood, and spreads her legs.

He kisses her knee as he undoes the ties of his trousers. She watches him free his cock, pump his fist up and down it until he’s leaning over her, warm and panting and pressing his length into her.

“Imelda,” he gasps, head bowed. He raises his head to look at her, hungry and questioning.

“Fast,” she says, running her fingers along his back, “Hard, Ernesto.”

Any other time she would ask him to make her forget her own name. But her mind still steals away to Héctor, sleeping away the cold in their home. She had almost lost him. She knew pneumonia was not an easy sickness to overcome. If they had been any days later, if his lungs and been allowed to worsen--

The thought leaves her when Ernesto drives into her, over and over, hardly allowing her to cry out his full name. She clutches to him, gasping and moaning. Again he’s palming one breast and she laughs, amused by his awe of her chest. She can’t blame him. Her breasts are pleasant, and she also finds pleasure in touching Héctor’s chest after making love. She knows Ernesto has a special appreciation for her rear as well. With Héctor it’s his mouth, his soft lips, and his taut _nalgas_ that fit perfectly in Ernesto’s palms. 

Ernesto lifts his head. He’s panting, looks at her with a challenge.

“Clearly,” he says, pauses moving against her. “I must not be doing well if you’ve time to laugh.”

“You always make me laugh,” she says. “Even when you don’t mean to.”

Ernesto frowns, as if unsure if he should be complimented or insulted, rubbing one thumb against her hardened nipple. He shakes his head and begins again, driving into her hard enough to wring out what might have been a squeal.

She grips his shoulder when he abandons her breast and reaches down between her legs where he’s fucking into her. He rubs his fingers against her clit, hard and unrelentless, and suddenly Imelda is seeing stars. She clenches hard around him, fingers digging deep into his skin, and cries out his name.

“ _Ernesto, ah, ah--_ ”

He continues to fuck into her as she relaxes from her climax, watching her face, until he groans and comes, pressing his face between her breasts and gasping against her warm skin. Imelda rests her trembling hands against his back as he collapses against her.

They stay like that in silence, both panting, trying to catch their breath. Until Ernesto pulls out of her and lays beside her.

“He’ll be fine then?” He asks. Imelda knew Héctor had also been on his mind. 

“He will have to stay in bed for another day to recover.”

“He’s going to be a nuisance,” Ernesto groans, but Imelda knows he enjoys entertaining his friend.

With a sigh, he turns onto his side and runs his fingers over her breasts. Imelda rolls her eyes but says nothing.

“You know,” he says, pinching lightly under one nipple, “Whatever game we were playing--”

“I won,” she says, and narrows her eyes at his glare.

“You don’t even know what you won.”

“Whatever it was, I won, _viejo,_ ” she says, and sits up. “I need to go back to Héctor. If he develops a fever, we must tell Doctor.”

“I’ll go with you,” Ernesto says. “I want to see the bruises.”

Again, Imelda rolls her eyes but says nothing. Ernesto raises onto his elbows. He watches her stand and straighten her skirt, pull on her undergarments and her blouse. Before, when they had all been together, he and Héctor would have been fooling around on the bed while Imelda redressed and did her hair. Now, he throws on his shirt, and follows her out the door.

\-------------

They fuck again minutes later in his kitchen.

Ernesto could not say why. She had shown him the bowl of soup she had brought, and suddenly the soup was on the floor and Imelda bent over the table. She’d hiked her skirt up for him and he’d pinched her bottom before lifting her waist higher and pressing into her. She’s hot and wet around him, and he fucks her as hard and fast as before, hard enough to move the heavy table under them. She’s gasping into her hand, muffled little _ah ahs_ , and her free hand is clenching into a fist.

He wants to slap her ass, the way he does with Héctor, but the last time he had tries that on her she almost bitten his head off. Instead he leans to reach around and palm her breasts through her blouse. They’re amazing in his hands, and he’s reminded of a time when he had sat back to watch Héctor mouth and nip at them while she reached down to run her fingers torturously slow along his cock.

The thought of Héctor makes him drive harder into her. He’d been close to suffering from pneumonia. Ernesto knew men who had died from it. To watch Héctor, with his thin chest coughing and hacking up his lungs would have been hell.

He bows his head and shuts his eyes and tries not to think of it. Héctor is alive. He will not die. Héctor has already stretched himself thin trying to please them both, and Ernesto feels guilt eat him alive.

“ _Ernesto,_ ” Imelda gasps, and for the second time that night she clenches around him, and with two more thrusts he comes inside her, moaning.

He pulls out of her and collapses into a chair, head thrown back, as he squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to think what he would do without his friends.

“Thank you,” Imelda says suddenly. He glances at her in surprise. She’s adjusting her skirts, face red, breathless, but looking softly at him. “For taking care of him. I don’t know how he would have lasted all those days without your company.”

“Thank you,” Ernesto says in turn. Imelda frowns at him. “For _all_ you have done for him. You are… you’re a good wife, Imelda. A good friend.”

Imelda nods, holding back tears, and chuckles. “It would have been better for us all if we had said this sooner. We should have been easier on him.”

“ _Tienes razón,_ ” he says. He can still feel the guilt eating away at him. “He did not deserve to be caught between us.”

“To be fair,” Imelda says, running a hand through her mussed hair. “I don’t think he minds being _between_ us, _el pillo._ ”

“Can you blame him?” Ernesto says. They share a chuckle, before Ernesto takes Imelda’s hand, and holds it for a moment, grateful to see the rift closing between them.

\-----------

Héctor doesn’t know where anybody is.

Well. He knows the twins are out of town. But Imelda had been home before he’d fallen asleep, but she’s not responding to his calls across their home. Ernesto never came by either, and now Héctor is certain he is alone in his house.

It’s dark out. Why would Imelda be out so late?

Sucking in a breath, Héctor throws his blanket off. He swings his legs out of bed (weeks ago he would not have been able to do this) and gets to his feet. His shirt is hanging off a chair, and he grabs it to carefully pull it on.

He thinks he knows where she is. His wife always complained about Ernesto, but in the past few weeks while Héctor had recovered, he’d seen her warm up to him again. He’d seen Ernesto look at her with that warm look he’d once had, and they’d had conversations that did not involve either of them yelling at each other. They’d shared meals together and they’d enjoyed them. Which was good. Which was amazing in fact. He’d hoped and prayed and struggled just to get them to be within ten feet of each other for a long time, and now that they finally were, they were being together _without him._

He wanted to at least enjoy the fruit of his labors.

When Ernesto had stayed for breakfast, and especially when he’d stayed for lunch, Héctor had almost imagined they were all still together. He loved being married to his wife, and he wanted to have children with her and grown old with her, but Ernesto had been a part of their lives for so long. Héctor knew they belonged together, all of them. He’d wanted his wife and his friend to see that too, but they’d been so busy being furious for some reason that they hadn’t seen that.

He didn’t know how much longer he’d be able to go between them.

His boots are by the front door, and he walks down the hall as he buttons his shirt. He coughs a few times into his hand, his chest burning slightly, before looking up.

He gasps and stumbles back when he finds Imelda and Ernesto glaring at him from the front door.

“It hasn’t been two days yet,” Imelda says, and snaps her fingers at Ernesto. Without a word, Ernesto starts forward, and Héctor holds his hands up in defense.

“ _Espere,_ I was just going to look for you, Imelda--AY! Ernesto, _qué te pasa, cabron!”_

Ernesto had swept Héctor into his arms and was now holding him like a new blushing bride. Ernesto is shorter, but he is much stronger, so Héctor is not surprised the idiot was able to pick him up so easily. But he bets they look ridiculous.

His suspicions are confirmed when Imelda’s stern glare is disrupted by a chortle.

“I knew I was going to have to tie you down,” Ernesto says as he begins to carry Héctor down the hall.

“I feel better, I’m not coughing so much,” Héctor says, but at that moment, his throat seizes up and he begins to cough.

“ _Mentiroso,_ ” Ernesto says, and carefully lays Héctor down in bed.

Imelda sits next to Héctor, and when he’s done coughing, she takes his hands in her own. Her hands are small, but Héctor knows the hidden strength they possess. His wife is an amazing woman and he loves her with all his heart, but the look she aims at him terrifies him to his core.

“I will not allow you to have pneumonia,” she says. “You are _loco_ if you think I am going to let you die on me, Héctor Rivera.”

“You need to rest, _idiota,_ ” Ernesto says. He’s taken a seat on the opposite side of the bed, and Héctor blinks at him when Imelda lands a hand on his shoulder and pushes until he’s laying snug against the pillows.

She lays next to him, and Ernesto squeezes in on his other side until Héctor is sandwiched between them both. Imelda’s warm hand is over his chest, lightly tracing the outline of his collar bone, and Ernesto throws his leg over Héctor’s.

At first Héctor is too shocked to do anything but stare at the ceiling in awe. But Imelda’s hand stroking his skin, and Ernesto’s warm strength next to him are soothing. He hasn’t expreienced this in almost a year. 

“If I can have this every day, I will never leave my bed,” he says. Imelda hums and Ernesto chuckles. With a smile, Héctor turns to kiss Imelda’s brow, and sees dark splotches on her neck.

He reaches up to poke one, and she opens her eyes to stare at him.

“Did you two have fun making up?” Héctor asks, and Imelda grips his poking finger.

“We did,” she says, while Ernesto sneaks a hand under Héctor’s shirt to pet his stomach. “And once you heal, we can have fun apologizing to you, too.”

“Why wait?” Héctor asks. He wants to have fun _now_. He’s spent too much time laying about and staring at the walls.

But Imelda pokes his bruised ribs and he yelps, pouting at her.

“That’s why,” she says. But at least she kisses his pout away.

“Just go back to sleep,” Ernesto says, and they stay that way until Héctor does fall asleep, warm, safe, and finally content.

\--------------

The next morning, Imelda brings hot tea to Héctor in bed.

Ernesto is laying next to him. They are arguing about the name of a song Héctor hasn’t even finished writing yet. Ernesto wants something dramatic, and Héctor wants to keep it simple. He thinks Ernesto is being very unreasonable. 

“Oye, who’s sick and injured here?” He finally snaps. “Your arguing is aggravating my cough. Let me have my title.”

“You heard him, Ernesto,” Imelda says, as she hands a mug of steaming tea to her husband. “If he dies, it’s on your head.”

Ernesto makes a dismissive noise and waves his hand at both of them. “And you both say _I’m_ the dramatic one. Fine, have your simple title, _moscoso._ ”

Héctor grins, victorious, and sips at his tea.

He has to press his lips together to keep from spitting it out.

“It’s hot,” he says, hurt that Imelda would hand him such scalding liquid. “And it tastes…”

“Terrible,” Imelda says. “ _Lo se._ Señora Ramirez sent it over as an apology. It will help with your cough, Héctor.”

“ _Pero--!_ ”

“ _Pero nada, moscoso,_ ” Ernesto says. “Drink it and get better so I can win arguments again.”

Héctor looks between them both, defenseless against their united front and sighs.

“Now that you’re friends again,” he says, not missing the way they glance at each other, “You’re going to gang up against me a lot again, aren’t you?”

“Only when it’s for your own good,” Imelda says, at the same time that Ernesto says, “Only when you’re being annoying.”

Héctor laughs, coughs once, and takes a sip of tea that tastes like rancid leaf water.

\-------------------------------

 

A month later finds Ernesto in the hall, Héctor on his knees, and Imelda walking in on them with a basket of freshly folded clothes.

“ _En serio?_ ” She asks, one hand on her hip. “In the hall? My brothers live here too, you know.”

“Imelda, _por favor_ , they’re out at the fiesta,” Ernesto says, leaning his head lazily back against the wall. His hand in buried in Héctor’s hair. Héctor’s hands are on Ernesto’s hips, and his mouth is full of Ernesto’s cock. Ernesto pulls his hair and he moves his head back, then forward again, eyes looking up at Ernesto through his long eyelashes because he knows it drives Ernesto crazy.

Ernesto bites his lip and jerks his hips forward, causing Héctor to grunt. Imelda rolls her eyes.

“If you make a mess, I won’t clean it.”

“ _No te molestes,_ ” Ernesto says. His hand tightens in Héctor’s hair. Héctor groans. “Because he’s going to swallow, isn’t he?”

Because he cannot answer, Héctor grips the base of Ernesto’s cock where his mouth cannot reach and squeezes. 

Ernesto continues to lazily fuck Héctor’s mouth, and slaps his hands away when Héctor tries to wipe drool from his chin. Imelda shakes her head and heads for her bedroom.

Héctor had finally healed enough to allow Doctor Alvarez to remove the “No Fun Ban” (as Héctor called it) and had been all over the place ever since. 

And the first chance he got to make love to Imelda and Ernesto, he took it. 

In her bedroom, Imelda begins to sort away the clothes, and can hear Ernesto’s faint moans from the hall. For once, she doesn’t feel the need to drive the memory of him from Héctor’s mind. She’ll have her turn soon enough, and she won’t have to fight Ernesto for it.

She’d won the last one, anyway.

\-------------------

Ernesto cannot believe they have spent so long without the three of them making love together.

He runs his hands over Héctor’s reddened rear. He presses his fingers along the bite marks Imelda left minutes ago. On his knees, with his face between Imelda’s thighs, Héctor moans. He licks deep into Imelda and spreads his knees further.

Ernesto waits. He rests his hands on Héctor’s cheeks. He will watch Héctor eat out his wife for a moment longer, the look of ecstasy on Imelda’s face. He admires the curve of Héctor’s long back, the spread of his shoulders, and the eagerness with which he pleasures his wife.

Imelda drags her fingernails along Héctor’s shoulder, bites her lips when he rubs a finger against her clit. She has one arm over her head, and Ernesto appreciates the sight of her breasts displayed for him. 

The room is lit by a single lamp, and the shadows play along the bare skin of his lovers before him. Héctor’s sweat slicked skin is hot beneath his hands, and Imelda’s heated gaze burns into him. He’s blessed to have these two in his bed, and he would have them pleasure each other in front of him for every hour of the day if he could. But he is satisfied with this, these moments they have together. Whether conversations at the table or conversations in bed, he appreciates them, and he would trade them for nothing.

They are his, and he is theirs, and for the first time in a long time, Héctor can be at peace between them.

No longer content to just watch, Ernesto gives one last curt slap to Héctor’s cheeks before cupping them in his palms and spreading them. He had prepared Héctor earlier, so he could fuck into him the very moment he desired. He stares hard into Imelda’s eyes, and drives deep into her husband.

Héctor jerks forward with a grunt. Imelda’s eyes go wide and she throws her head back. She moans. Héctor lifts his head to get a good look. 

“You’re not done, _amigo,_ ” Ernesto says. Cock buried deep, he pinches Héctor’s ass until Héctor waves an impatient hand at him and bows his head again. Ernesto waits until his friend is sucking Imelda’s clit and burying his fingers in her before driving his hips forward and back, slow enough to keep Héctor’s head steady, but hard enough to make him moan.

“Héctor,” Imelda gasps. She runs her hand through his hair, her face flushed, chest heaving. “You’re so good, _amor,_ so talented.”

“He learned from the best,” Ernesto says, and winks. Even in the throes of passion, Imelda finds it in her to roll her eyes at him.

Ernesto thrusts forward, until he hears Héctor’s repeated grunts and moans. Ernesto himself is breathless, his heart racing. He licks his lips and reaches around to grip Héctor’s cock. 

“You know I won’t let you finish until she does,” he gasps. He hears Héctor’s moans and sees his friend’s fingers move deeper into Imelda. Imelda’s legs move as if to clench around Héctor’s head, her hand gripping his hair tight. Her free hand moves to press at her own breast, and Ernesto is enraptured.

He wants to see her ride Héctor the way she used to, to make Héctor almost useless beneath her, completely in her control. She has a way about it that Ernesto can not master. What he does know he is likes to watch her breasts bounce, and Héctor squirm and whine, while Ernesto lays beside them and jerks himself off. 

He knows she likes to watch when he sucks Héctor off, or when Héctor wraps his legs around Ernesto’s waist and arches his back so Ernesto can fuck hard into him. 

He wishes they had more chances to do this. More freedom to love each other the way they want. But for now he’ll settle for this, whatever he can get.

With another thrust, Héctor jerks forward hard and Imelda cries out, and Ernesto can imagine the slickness that releases onto Héctor’s face. Imelda twitches, falling from her high, relaxing against the headboard of Ernesto’s bed. She gasps for air, eyes half lidded as she pet’s Héctor’s hair, and watches Ernesto still thrusting into him.

Moving his hand to hold on for dear life to Imelda’s leg, Héctor rests his head against her thigh. His lips are wet, gleaming, parted as he gasps and moans with each thrust from Ernesto. His hair is in disarray, and Imelda smooths it back, whispering declarations of love as Ernesto begins to pump Héctor’s cock mercilessly.

“Well done, Héctor,” Ernesto says. His voice is strained. He is trying not to come before Héctor, but it is difficult when Héctor begins to thrust back to meet him. “Do you think you should come now?”

Héctor reaches one hand back to grab at Ernesto’s hand on his cock, before Imelda pushes it away and holds his hand in hers.

“Answer him, _amor,_ ” Imelda says, and holds his hand tight. 

“ _Si,_ ” Héctor groans, trembling between them. He releases a drawn out groan against Imelda’s leg. “Ernesto, _por favor,_ I, I have to, _por favor_ \--”

“You can, _hermoso,_ ” Ernesto says. He tilts Héctor’s hips until he’s hitting the spot that makes his friend howl. “Come for us.”

With a cry, Héctor releases onto Ernesto’s hand, and gasps desperately against Imelda’s thigh. His drool is still wet on her skin, and she places her hand over his cheek, comforting him as he comes down from his high. 

“ _Que lindo,_ ” she says, and Héctor smiles tiredly at her as Ernesto continues to drive into him.

Héctor is still spasming around Ernesto, and with the sight of his sated lovers before him, finally Ernesto cannot hold back. He releases with a groan, hips twitching forward, and bows low over Héctor’s back. 

“Too heavy,” Héctor groans, and Ernesto bites between his shoulders in retaliation. 

He slips out of Héctor, relishing his friend’s moan, and lays beside Imelda. He feels like he could melt right into the mattress, with how relaxed he is. Slowly, Héctor moves to collapse between them on his back, and Imelda lays half atop him.

Imelda begins to run her palms across Héctor’s chest, smiling at his shivers, and Ernesto watches with a tired smile.

“See,” Héctor says, hissing when Imelda flicks one of his nipples. He holds her hand still while he continues, “When we’re civil, good things happen.”

“I suppose,” Imelda says lightly.

“You’ll come to dinner tomorrow, Ernesto?” Héctor asks, aiming big doe eyes at Ernesto.

Ernesto snorts, but it’s Imelda who answers, “Has there been a day when he isn’t sitting at our table for every meal, Héctor?”

Héctor shrugs and yawns. “I just want to make sure.”

Ernesto sighs and pulls Héctor closer to him, so Imelda can rest comfortably. As Héctor begins to mumble sleepily, his arm sneaking around Imelda’s waist, Imelda exchanges a glance with Ernesto. He knows that they can at least agree that their nights are much more satisfying when they hold Héctor between them together, rather than pulling him apart.

\---------------

Llife is almost back to normal. 

Héctor is playing his guitar again, singing for Imelda while she cooks in the kitchen. He helps Ernesto fix his roof after a storm. Imelda makes dinners for her family, and she’s comfortable admitting to herself that her family includes Ernesto, even if he can sometimes drive her up the wall.

Héctor likes sitting between them, or lying between them in bed. He makes them laugh and enjoys their friendly arguments. For once, he does not feel an ounce of shame when he is with one rather than the other, because once again he is not some scoreboard between them. 

He has his place with them, and will have that place for years to come, as the years pass and their family grows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can probably tell I didn't know where to end this chapter, but I hope the ten thousand ending-ish page breaks were somewhat satisfying anyway.
> 
> Thanks for your time!


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